goose-fat

My hands are woven Like spiderwebs, weakly Through the darkness of habit.

To a grimy fork in the sink. You used to joke, grimly, that we lived In Financial Times - and back then, all you saw was Cheap chicken on a plate, carved up like Xmas, Necessity writing a love song to indulgence, A mind teaching a made-up mind to grow. That was enough for you, Nothing to speak of. A mind teaching a mind, The cognition growing like fungus in your sneakers. The fairy glow of screens trembling In shaky hands a cautionary tale, Your mind is full of personalities and talking heads. You are as corny as Sybil, a parable: A mind growing, to teach a growing mind to teach A growing mind to mind growing. There was catered silence, wh

He was a caught thing, a sick price low on marketing, and she was a visceral spin, deadly corrective medicine, and oh what a lie she told: she felt the wind in her hair long before he opened up, or she oversold.

the memory of hundreds upon thousands of terrific silver cars lingers in the square on Sunday, exhaust buttering the sky, and by the river, the otter paw is bent back up skyward and sonorously void - cue the swaying of cattails - and maybe that untainted shade of blue is all out there, over and out of luck - you'll find it painted on the wall, appearing to make the whole symphonic trustworthy tonic turn blue with that longing.

I will grow old or be afraid of time Long before he finds a mother’s fingers Rupturing the sea-change in my hands. In a moment the world will spill over.

the first words were not sun and moon and stars, but oh god I will wear this power like a bearskin - like a drum machine in a chicken-bone key. carnivorous instinct is the sum of all the parts we're too afraid to eat: black wires, white bulbs, wicks from tallow candles. if they would let us, we could make wax breathe:   we could hunt the essence of smoking fluorescent galaxies, all our strange living lives and neon paradises, all our blue planets and disemboweled sacrifices, if only we could breathe while below us the round sky winds down and holds bone to our throats, so we are spilled, forced up and wondering: if sugar were sweet, t

and the way we filled out, taking on all the character of spoiled milk, cottage cheese, what they call it in women's magazines - whatever they call it - turns my heart, and the way our hearts turn for bread and circuses, for the obsessive-compulsive lurch of the stern  of some guiding ship or foreign wind in our sails, for a snapped rudder dragging current down across the line of waves  that lassoes Shangri-La, simultaneously carrying and mis- carrying at the cusp of reality, makes me wonder if it was malnourishment at sixteen that made us crazy, or  our